Mary had more to say than the others. She confessed to writing the letter of warning that had so mystified the basket-ball team.
"I knew you wrote it," Marjorie said quietly. "I found it out by comparing the paper it was written on with a letter I had received from you. I was so glad. I knew you couldn't be like Mignon, even if you were her friend."
"I was never her friend, nor she mine," asserted Mary with a positive shake of her head. "I was jealous of Constance and was glad to find someone besides myself who didn't like her. I never knew the true story of the pin until Jerry——" She paused, coloring deeply.
"So Jerry told you. That is just like her. She is the kindest-hearted girl in the world. Next to you two, I like her best of all my schoolmates." Marjorie's affectionate tones bespoke her deep regard for the stout girl whose matter-of-fact ways and funny sayings were a perpetual joy.
"If only I had listened to you and Connie in the first place." Mary sighed. "I've spoiled my sophomore year and tried hard enough to spoil yours. And there's so little of it left! I won't have time to show you how sorry I am and how much I care."
"We will begin now and make the most of what is left of it," proposed Marjorie gently. Then she added, "Jerry didn't know all that happened last year. I would like to tell you about it."
"Please do," urged Mary humbly.
Marjorie told the story of her first year in Sanford, frequently turning to Constance for confirmation. When she had finished Mary was silent. She had no words with which to express her utter contrition.
"Now you know our sad history," smiled Marjorie, with a kindly attempt at lightening the burden of self-reproach Mary bore.
"But neither of you has told me how Mary happened to find Charlie to-night," reminded Constance. "I am anxious to know. This is the first time he ever ran so far away."